


Perpetually Unfinished

by emeralddawn



Category: Doctor Who, Fullmetal Alchemist, Marvel, Next Avengers, Pitch Perfect (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeralddawn/pseuds/emeralddawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A repository for blurbs, partially finished stories, and ideas I haven't the time to flesh out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Marvel/Pitch Perfect crossover

**Author's Note:**

> After much debate, I finally decided to upload some of my less embarrassing WIPs. These are most likely dead, but if you really like the premise feel free to leave me a message of encouragement--you never know what will inspire!

The quad was filled with tables sporting brightly-colored banners and students milling around like confused sheep. Ah, firsties. So young and so clueless.

Tony tapped his pen against a stack of flyers bearing the words _The Treblemakers_ in large-type comic sans. Comic sans. Really. Tony was going to have a word with Jan; comic sans was a crime against typeface. The top flyer was covered in illegible scribbles which could have been math or could have been music notes. 

Tony sighed loudly, watching another student walk by with barely a glance at their table. When that didn’t produce a reaction from his companion, he collapsed dramatically onto his closed arms and moaned, “Bruuuuuce. This is so _boring_. Why am I even here?”

From his chair, Bruce replied mildly, “Because if you cover this shift, Natasha’s letting you spend the rest of your time harassing people at the robotics table.”

Tony shuddered, not entirely for show. Natasha was _terrifying_ , and not just because she and Coulson liked to tag-team him with their emotionless not-putting-up-with-your-shit faces. She was, like, a triple-black-belt in ass-kicking. Tony had once seen her knock a guy unconscious with her _thighs_. And not in the sexy-leather-pants way. “Right.” 

He tipped his chin onto his arms, watching the crowd listlessly. He completely ignored any kids who came up to the table, leaving Bruce to field any questions. Then Tony saw him: tall, broad-shouldered, with his blond hair neatly parted, and his biceps threatening to rip the hems of his t-shirt. Tony whistled low. “Looks like today got a lot more interesting.”

Bruce protested, “Tony—“

“Hey you! Blondie!”

Bruce tried to intervene. “Tony, you can’t just accost people because they’re hot.”

Tony was having none of it. “Says you.” 

The blond looked over to the table with a ‘Who, me?’ expression. Tony said, “Yeah, you with the pecs.”

Bruce groaned. Tony ignored him.

Pecs walked over. Tony said, “Do they not make shirts in your size? Seriously.” Bruce buried his head in his hands. When the blond looked ready to object Tony waved the comment away and said, “You want to join our a capella group?”

There was a moment when Tony thought Pecs would just walk away, but instead he asked, “That’s where you sing without any accompaniment, right?” He accepted the flyer Tony handed him and looked it over. “Like in the car commercials.”

Tony looked indignant. “That was so 2007. We do way better than that.”

“But that’s the basic idea,” Bruce said. “We do covers of songs—“

“—but it’s all from our mouths,” Tony interrupted, adding a leer for good measure.

A very intriguing flush bloomed across the bridge of Pecs’ nose, though his stiffening posture and wrinkling eyebrows screamed ‘disapproval’ more than ‘embarrassment’. “Ah…”

“So, you interested?” Tony asked with a suggestive eyebrow wiggle.

The blonde blushed darker, and said with great dignity, “Sorry. I don’t sing.”

~~~

“There’s only one group on this campus worth joining,” Peter said, dragging MJ along by the hand.

“The photography club?” MJ offered.

Peter paused; MJ took the opportunity to tangle their fingers together. Peter gave her a pleased smile, then resumed his quick walk through the crowd. “Two clubs worth joining, then. This is the other one!”

He stopped in front of a table manned by two students, a boy with curly hair and glasses, and another boy who looked supremely bored by the world and was doodling on a flyer.

MJ read the banner aloud: “The Treblemakers?”

“Yes!” Peter waved at the curly-haired boy, who waved back somewhat bemusedly. Peter was used to that reaction, though. “Behold the rockstars of a capella, the royalty of campus—well, you know, not including athletes, frat guys, or actual cool people.”

“Organized nerd singing, you mean,” MJ said, dry but not mocking. Really, Peter’s enthusiasm for things like this was what made him so loveable. “This is great.”

“I know,” Peter said. He stepped up to the table. “Hi! I’m Peter. When are auditions?”

“What are you, twelve?” asked the bored one, barely looking up from his disinterested scribbles.

“Sixteen,” Peter said, put out. MJ squeezed his hand in consolation.

Curly-haired said, “Ignore him, he’s just upset he’s not at the robotics club. I’m Bruce.”

“Nice to meet you,” MJ replied. At the same time, Peter asked, “We have a robotics club?”

“Yup,” the bored one said, finally looking up. He had a van dyke growing in, but it still looked pretty spotty. “And a spiffy new lab. You can thank me later. Like in an hour when my shift ends.” He winced as Bruce kicked him in the shin. “Ow! What?”

“Introduce yourself,” Bruce said.

“Why? He won’t make it in. It’s just gonna end in tears,” the brunet said. Bruce raised an eyebrow. The brunet muttered rebelliously, “Tony.”

Bruce patted Tony on the head, then ignored him as he swatted at the hand and started fixing his hair, muttering under his breath. 

Bruce handed Peter a flyer, one Tony hadn’t written on. “Auditions are next week, after the beginning of class. All the information’s there.”

“Only come if you can actually sing,” Tony said. “Really. Save yourself the embarrassment.”

“Stop saying that to people, Tony,” Bruce said.

“Every year we get people who can’t carry a tune to save their life,” Tony protested. “I’m just trying to make auditions a little less painful for everyone.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” MJ interrupted before the two could really get going. She gave them a confident, somewhat leering look. “He can sing.”

Peter and Bruce blushed. Tony smirked. “I like you. I’m Tony Stark.”

Peter eeped, but MJ only bowed a little. “Mary-Jane Watson. If you’ll excuse me, my boyfriend promised we could stop by the Alpha Psi Omega table.” She grabbed Peter and towed him away; Peter was still somewhat stunned, so the job was easier than normal.

“MJ,” Peter said faintly. “I just met Tony Stark.”

“You did,” MJ agreed.

“ _Tony Stark,_ ” Peter repeated.

“Yes,” MJ said.

“D’you think I could get his picture?”

~~~

They were testing a theory. Really. That was Tony’s story, and he was sticking to it. That they were naked in the showers was inconsequential, and the “no four-legged showers” rule was not technically applicable, as Tony’s feet weren’t on the ground.

Turned out Clint really could hold him up against the wall. He had amazing upper body strength. (Next time, it was Tony’s turn to try. Robots weren’t for weaklings, and Tony fully intended to prove it.)

Clint’s tongue was down his throat, and Tony tightened his legs around Clint’s hips for leverage as they kissed. He barely registered the bathroom door opening, but then the person started to sing.

And by that, Tony meant _sing_. He was good, this mystery boy. Tony hadn’t even known _Titanium_ could fit male vocals so well.

Tony pulled away from the kiss, pushing Clint’s face away with one hand when he tried to follow. “Listen,” Tony hissed, then he slid down Clint’s body and tore out of their shower cubicle.

The singer was right next door, and just as the water turned on, Tony ripped the curtain open. It was Pecs, the stubborn blonde who said he couldn’t sing.

Pecs whirled around with an embarrassed squeak, and if Tony hadn’t been so focused on his voice, he would have laughed. Pecs grabbed for the shower curtain and covered his junk. Tony realized he was probably staring at Pecs with unnerving intensity, but those pecs weren’t the only godly things about his physique, and he could sing on top of all that pretty. Tony pursed his lips. Figured. Next, Tony would find out that he was intelligent and could hold a decent conversation, which would be entirely unfair.

Tony reached behind Pecs and turned the water off, leaving them practically nose to nose.

“You liar,” he accused. “You can so sing.”

Pecs stared at him with wide, stunned eyes. They were very blue, even in the bathroom’s vaguely yellow fluorescent lighting.

“How high does your belt go?” Tony demanded, stepping until there was barely room for air between them. Pecs was a bit blurry so close.

“What?” Pecs stuttered, barely getting the whole word out before Tony interrupted.

“You have to audition.”

“What?” Pecs repeated. He seemed to be regaining some of his composure, though, because he managed to add, “I can’t concentrate on anything you say until you cover yourself.”

“Just consider it,” Tony said, insistent and completely ignoring what Pecs said. It wasn’t anything sensible, anyway. Why would Tony want to cover anything? It was obviously putting Pecs off-balance, and Tony would take any advantage. And really, why would _Tony Stark_ want to _cover_ anything? He was hot stuff.

Pecs still didn’t seem inclined to agree, so Tony added, “One time we sang back-up for Prince. His ass is so tiny I can hold it in one hand.”

That was an incentive, right? Everybody loved Prince.

Pecs didn’t look moved. In fact, his blank expression shifted into incredulity. It was a subtle difference, but Tony was used to incredulity, so he recognized it. Pecs said, “Seriously. I am _nude._ ”

And who was Tony to ignore such an invitation? He stepped back and looked Pecs over, blonde hair to ridiculously well-shaped ankles. “Yup,” Tony said, unable to tear his eyes away from Pecs’, well, pecs. He had nice pert nipples, and Tony really wanted to lick them. He forced himself to meet Pecs’ eyes, which were round and framed by an adorable blush. “You sure are.”

“Get out of my shower,” Pecs said flatly.

Tony ignored him; he still wasn’t saying anything worth paying attention to. “That was _Titanium_ , right?”

“You know David Guetta?” 

“Have I been living under a rock? Yeah, I know David Guetta.” Tony scoffed, rolled his eyes and said under his breath, “Do I know David Guetta.” To Pecs, he explained, “That song is my _jam_ ,” with a very sensual shimmy that made Pecs go red. “It really _builds_. Can you sing it for me?” 

“What?” Pecs’ voice went up a register; Tony raised an impressed eyebrow. Not many men could hit that pitch without sounding ridiculous. Good to know. Pecs cleared his throat and said, firmly, “No. Get out.”

“Not for that reason,” Tony said dismissively. Though he wouldn’t turn it down, honestly, the guy was built like some sort of Greek statue. “We wouldn’t be in the shower for that. Well. Probably. Not the first time, anyway.”

Pecs blushed harder, which Tony wasn’t aware was possible. It went pretty far down his chest, Tony was fascinated to note. He was also starting to look like he was considering violence. Tony was impressed it had taken him this long. The first time he had accosted Rhodey in the shower, he had almost broken Tony’s nose. It had been a learning experience. Mostly in how to duck more quickly.

From the next stall, Clint started coughing, probably to cover a laughing fit. He had been surprisingly quiet, and Tony wouldn’t admit to anyone that he had forgotten Clint was even there for a moment.

He refocused on Pecs. “Right. Sing, oh blond Adonis.”

Pecs was sadly silent. And looking a lot more homicidal. 

Tony powered on, purposefully oblivious. It had worked well for him so far. He continued stubbornly, “I’m not leaving until you sing, so…” He added a get-on-with-it gesture as encouragement.

Looking mulish, the blond finally began to sing. It was just as beautiful as before, echoing slightly off the tile. Tony joined him, watching as Pecs lost himself in the rise and fall of their voices. His eyes were intense, almost electric, and Tony couldn’t help but catalogue the ring of silver around his pupil and the flecks of lighter blue among the darker. The song came to its natural conclusion, and for a moment they just breathed together. Tony had no words for a moment, eyes flicking between the blond’s expanding chest and his unblinking gaze. Pecs’ mouth kicked up into a pleased smile, and Tony began to grin in return.

Then Clint began to clap, slow, and appeared around the stall wall.

Pecs flinched back, eyes flying to the ceiling and blush erupting along his cheeks again. 

“You have a lovely voice,” Clint said, in that faux-mocking tone that meant he really meant it.

Tony felt his grin take on a bit more of a smug cast. “Told you.”

~~~

Everyone was required to come to auditions. Tony didn’t understand why, since Coulson and Natasha totally ignored his input anyway, but there he was, sitting with the rest of them. Bruce was on his left, shuffling papers—looked like some photocopies of the _American Journal of Physics_ —with his eyebrows scrunched up. On his right, Clint had kicked his feet up on the chair in front of him, one over from Phil Coulson.

The Treblemakers sat in the middle of the small theatre, facing a low stage. A group of hopefuls sat clustered by the stairs up to the stage. Tony saw the kid who claimed to be sixteen (Tony was sure he was secretly twelve), but not Pecs. Maybe ambushing him in the shower hadn’t been Tony’s best idea. 

Arrayed around him in a loose pack were the rest of the crazy nerds who made up the Treblemakers. In the front were their erstwhile leaders, Phil Coulson and his lieutenant, deadly Natasha Romanoff. Coulson was probably the most forgettable person Tony had ever met, but in the year since he’d joined the a capella group on a whim, Tony had learned that it was a carefully cultivated image. The man was a master of organization and subtle manipulation. No need for blunt force when technicalities would do. Romanoff, on the other hand, was made to be memorable. She had vibrant red hair and a perfect hourglass figure. She could also render men twice her size unconscious with no appreciable effort.

Up one row were Tony’s group of three; if he had to be here, he’d at least be the center of attention. To Bruce’s other side was Thor Odinson, the [Swedish?] exchange student that had joined last year. His dad was some bigwig overseas, so he’d managed to finagle another year at American college. There was a lot of family drama there that Tony tried not to get involved in too heavily, but it was hard when Thor was such an open, emotional person. Tony only really minded when Thor’s emo crazy adoptive brother Loki pulled his I-don’t-know-you-you’re-not-my-brother act, which happened at least every other month. Thor never took it well, and he always looked like a giant sad golden retriever puppy.

One row above them sat Janet Van Dyne, sketching absently in the notebook that never left her side for long. Tony had once looked in it, but it was full of notated designs for clothes and fabric swatches (Tony blamed Jan for him even knowing what a fabric swatch was), which was both boring and offputting. Next to her was her boyfriend Henry Pym, a senior biology student who was currently buried in scientific journals and muttering to himself. He had absolutely zero interest in a capella, but somehow Jan managed to get him to attend most of the Treblemakers’ events. At Jan’s other side was Carol Danvers. The Air Force was putting her through college, and she and Tony had spent hours discussing planes and the physics of flight. On multiple occasions.

Behind and around them, friends of the a capella hopefuls sat. Tony spotted the spunky redhead that had accompanied the kid the other day.

Auditions themselves were the same as always, a mix of some people who could sing, some people who could maybe sing if there was a full band backing them up, and some people who thought they could sing but really, really couldn’t. Surprisingly, the kid—Peter—was of the first group. Auditions were, mercifully, drawing to a close, Coulson standing up to give everyone the standard we-will-consider-carefully-and-get-back-to-you speech, when the side door opened and Pecs rushed in, already slightly flushed. Tony straightened up from his slouch.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Pecs panted. “Are these the auditions for the Treblemakers?”

“Yes, but we’re,” Coulson started. Tony, sitting right behind him, kicked his seat. Coulson turned around with a questioning (threatening) eyebrow, and Tony tried to mime that they should totally hear this guy sing, seriously, no joke. Mostly it looked like a lot of spastic flailing, but Coulson seemed to get the gist. He continued, smoothly as if Tony hadn’t interrupted, “Just wrapping up. Do you have something prepared?”

“Yes, I, um,” the blond shuffled his feet, then took a deep breath and settled himself. He leveled a steady gaze at Coulson, handing over a form that had his name and contact information. “I do. I believe the flyer said sixteen bars?”

Coulson nodded. Not wanting to look too eager (an attempt he had already sabotaged, but to which he would give his all anyway), Tony slouched back in his seat. Pecs studiously ignored Tony, despite being almost directly in his line of sight.

“Name and song please,” Natasha intoned, despite having the form right in front of her.

“I’m Steve Rogers and I’ll be singing _The War was in Color_ by Carbon Leaf.”

By the end of those sixteen bars, Tony was sitting smug, and Carol had leaned in to hiss, “Where did you _find_ this guy?”

Yup. Natural.

~~~

[Some time later, after plot stuff and Tony and Steve getting to know each other better. And probably quite a bit of friction.]

“So I hear you have a crush,” Rhodey said in his ear, gleefully.

“What? I do not,” Tony protested automatically. “Who told you that? Lies. Lies and slander.”

Rhodey snorted. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

“Ugh, why would you do that,” Tony complained. “You know I hate Shakespeare.”

“And yet you can still identify a quotation from one of his seminal works,” Rhodey said. “So what’s his name?”

“It was Carol, wasn’t it? I knew I would regret introducing you,” Tony said. “Since, like, five minutes after I did it.”

“How else would I know what’s going on in your life? You never call, you never write, I’m starting to think you don’t love me any more.”

“Aw, don’t worry, sourpatch, you’re still my favorite.”

“Can you hear how happy I am? Because I am ecstatic.”

“I can tell. Your voice is really expressive, cupcake, it’s the best thing—”

“So he’s blond, built like a linebacker, and he sings,” Rhodey interrupted. “How did you meet?”

“Well…”

“Oh, god, did he beat you up?”

“What? No! Steve wouldn’t do that, he’s like, the epitome of wholesome American boy-next-door.”

“All right,” Rhodey said. His tone conveyed his sincere suspicion. “So how did you meet _Steve_?”

“Imighthaveambushedhimintheshower.”

“I’m sorry,” Rhodey said, deadpan. “You did what?”

“Look, he was singing in the shower, and he’d told me— _told me_ the day before at the club fair that he couldn’t sing, and that was a blatant lie so I had to confront him. About lying.” Tony tried to stop there, truly and sincerely _tried_ , but he vomited up more words instead. “And then maybe I told him _Titanium_ was my jam and made him sing it for me.”

“Oh, god,” Rhodey groaned. “Tony, you can’t just do shit like that!”

“But he turned up to auditions and made the team,” Tony protested. “So everything’s good.”

~~~

Tony answered his cell phone when it rang, saying absently, “Y’ello.” He rubbed his eyes as the small text on the screen blurred a bit, the cursor blinking, waiting for the next line of code. This was going to be his PhD project, an AI more advanced than that stupid jumble of letters Apple liked to call Siri, better even than Tony’s own first crack at AI, DUM-E. It was slow going, though.

“Heya, Tony,” Obadiah greeted. “How’s it going?”

“Hey, Obie,” Tony said, leaning back in his chair. “That prick [prof] is totally trying to sabotage my awesome PhD project, but I’m not letting him. I’ll show him ‘impossible.’ Asshole doesn’t know anything about robotics.”

“Sounds frustrating. Look, there’s an SI charity dinner coming up next week, and it would be good publicity if you went,” Obie said, cutting straight to the point.

Tony rubbed at the bristles on his chin, making a face when he felt how patchy they _still_ were. “Aren’t Mom and Dad going? Pepper told me they were going.”

“It’s been a while since the press has seen you with them,” Obie said. “It wouldn’t hurt to make an appearance.”

Tony scowled. “Right. America’s darlings, the patriot Howard Stark and his genius son, Anthony. No, thanks. Besides, I have a capella practice that night.”

“You don’t even know what night it is,” Obie said, voice straining for casual but leaking a bit of his anger.

“I have a capella practice,” Tony repeated. “Hey, I’m kind of in the middle of something important, so I’ll call you back, okay? Good. Later.”

Tony hit the ‘end’ button with vicious pleasure, then tossed the cell phone on his desk. “Urgh. Gonna pay for that later, I bet. Whatever. Hey, DUM-E, make me a smoothie, I’m hungry.”

The robotic arm that had been making more of a mess with a broom than he had been sweeping, tilted his camera at Tony and produced a chirpy noise of agreement. Satisfied, Tony went back to his _totally awesome and possible_ project.

\--

[Waaaay before the main action. Clint is a poor firstie, Coulson is a junior. Just a little side-story.]

It’s his first day at college, and Clint really should be paying attention to where he’s going but he’s not. Around him other freshmen are hugging mothers or getting manly pats from fathers, last minute advice from older siblings or promises to keep in touch from younger siblings. Clint walks through them like a ghost, unnoticed and alone. He walks like he knows where he’s going (he doesn’t), and with his mp3 player in his ears nobody bothers him.

He’s singing along under his breath, half-humming and half-vocalizing, but his eyes are on the sky and so he completely misses the guy walking in a crash course toward him. Clint’s moving _with purpose_ and so is the other guy, so the resulting crash is moderately painful and extremely embarrassing—Clint flails, doesn’t quite catch his balance, and lands heavily on his ass. The other guy somehow juggles all his papers and only stumbles a bit.

“Sorry,” the guy apologizes before Clint can catch his breath. “I didn’t see you in time.”

“’s okay,” Clint says gruffly. “Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The guy bends and picks up Clint’s fallen mp3 player. He raises an eyebrow at what’s on the screen, and Clint takes it back with slightly defensive speed. So he likes [embarrassing band]; they have good harmonies.

“You must be new,” the other guy says.

Clint says, “This is a pretty big school. We probably just haven’t run into each other yet.”

The guy shakes his head. “A voice like that? I’d know you.” He juggles a stack of papers and holds out his hand. “Phil Coulson.”

Unsure if the guy—Phil—was complimenting him or not, Clint takes the hand cautiously (he wasn’t raised by wolves, despite the common taunt). “Clint Barton.”

“Clint,” Phil repeats with a smile. It’s small and mainly it lurks around the corners of his mouth, but it’s like the sun coming out. It changes his face from plain to gorgeous. “You should audition with our a capella group. We’re always looking for new [low voice range].”

Still mildly stunned, Clint can only nod. The smile grows, just a bit, and Phil hands him one of the papers he’s carrying. He looks into Clint’s eyes and says, “Looking forward to hearing you sing, Clint Barton.”

And then, like he hasn’t completely flipped Clint’s world around, Phil brushes past him and disappears into the crowd of unpacking students. 

\--

A little background.

Tony’s on his second degree, which is a fuck-you to his father, it’s some sort of artsy degree that Howard thinks is totally useless. He already went to MIT and got his first bachelor’s and he’s kind of side-working on a PhD while getting his BFA. He moved DUM-E with him. He’s a sophomore and nineteen. He joined the a capella group as a sort of 'why not' thing back in freshman year and found he really enjoys it, so he splits his time between the robotics lab and the a capella group. Rhodey’s in the air force—academy? Officer training obviously—and Pepper is his PA/SI liason. He met her at Boston and/or MIT and somehow cajoled her into working for him after she graduated. No, he doesn’t know how he did it either. Tony has a lot of friends-with-benefits relationships: Clint, who’s in love with Coulson but willing to pass the time with Tony while Coulson gets his head out of his ass/notices that Clint’s been in love with him for years now; Bruce occasionally, who’s in love with Betty but there are father _Issues_ (they go out ‘as friends’ whenever they can); Carol once but they decided just friends was better. But suddenly he has _friends_ now—when did this happen, Jesus. And Obadiah doesn’t like it, because he’s suddenly a lot less dependent on him, and a lot less pliable.

Steve is a freshman who came to the school to get a respectable business degree even though his passion is art. He lives close by, his mother’s still alive and a nurse, but they don’t have a lot of money and he saves by living at home. His mother and friends encourage him to declare an art major, but Steve doesn’t feel like that’s a viable option considering the current economy. He wants to be able to support his mother and himself. Bucky’s in the army. Peggy was his high school sweetheart who is now out of the picture (they didn’t work out? Peggy moved back to England?) but he’s still pretty broken up about it.

Who’s in the group: Bruce, who’s double majoring in physics and chemistry; Jan, a junior who’s getting an art degree with an eye to go into the fashion industry (she does a lot of the advertising design for the club; hank’s her boyfriend though he’s not in the club); Clint, a sophomore; Coulson, who runs the club and is a senior; Natasha, a junior who’s second in command and in line to lead after Coulson graduates (Maria Hill used to be in charge and then she graduated), psych major; Tony; Thor, an exchange student (his estranged brother moved to the US a few years ago; Thor chose the school because Loki goes there, and Loki is furious); Carol, who’s a senior and the air force is paying for her degree, Tony introduced her to Rhodey and regretted it ever since; Steve joins this year, as do Peter (going to college a year or two early, and accordingly the baby of the club), and Darcy (Thor’s girlfriend Jane’s best friend/sibling of the heart).

This story was basically going to be a college au love story, mainly Tony's and Steve's. Maybe with a little Clint/Coulson in the background. There were also nebulous plans for a sequel wherein Obie was tired of Tony asserting his independence and not listening to Obie anymore and maybe has him kidnapped, though probably not by Afghan terrorists.


	2. Marvel; Next Avengers kid!fic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened between Ultron's devastating attack and the main action of the movie?

Tony isn’t entirely sure how he’d gotten here.

No, that’s a lie. He knows. He can remember with painful clarity the progression from _Avengers_ to _hostile Ultron takeover_ to _alone in hiding with four kids_.

He doesn’t even like kids.

(He can’t be a father—parents learn by example, and his example has been less than exemplary, and the thought of being responsible for a tiny baby when he can barely take care of himself, well—and he remembers the look Steve had given him, when he mentioned it, sad and determined and disbelieving. He’d said, with such awful sincerity, “You’d make a swell Dad, Tony.” That was before things went to shit, and Tony wonders if Steve’s opinion had changed any. Probably, he thinks.)

He never wanted to be a father. It’s one of life’s cruel ironies he’s now a single father of four.

\---

Later, much later, he tells them Ultron is all his fault. It’s been twelve years, and that’s how he tells it, that’s how he believes it: Ultron is his fault.

He doesn’t say anything about Hank, about how Ultron was Hank’s idea first, Hank’s glorious vision, pushed through by Hank’s idealistic naivete. (It would be cruel to tell little Pym, in any case.) He doesn’t mention that he only helped a little with the fabrication and some coding—because Hank might be a genius, but he was a biologist and entomologist, not an engineer, not a programmer—because those details are unimportant.

He didn’t stop Hank. He didn’t see it coming. He claimed to be a futurist; he regularly staked much more than just his reputation or his life on his predictions, made plans and contingencies for all the myriad threads of chance he plotted daily.

He was a futurist, and he didn’t see Ultron coming. That’s why it’s his fault. 

\---

[Some other things I planned to include:]

-Tony convinced by Steve to go; Tony still feels like he abandoned them  
-makes executive decision not to name names, only sometimes superhero codenames  
-doesn't bother to tell James that the Cap he's the son of isn't Steve  
-has a hard enough time just keeping them hid from an Ultron whose reach broadens every year; can barely work on defeating him  
-mech-Avengers are personal guilty indulgence, and so Cap is Cap, not Bucky-Cap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This promised to be a super-angsty moderately epic romp full of domestics, Tony raising kids, Tony angsting about not saving his friends and in fact running away, kids being adorable, Tony angsting about not telling Steve he loved him, kids learning to fight, Tony angsting about not being able to kill Ultron over the years...you see a pattern here? I lost steam because a) kidfic has never been a strong point of mine, and b) I just wasn't too interested in the future world.


	3. Marvel; Tony is a vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pretty self-explanatory

When he thinks about it (and he hadn’t, because _really_?) he probably should have expected it. Or, at the very least, not been so surprised. He spent his days fighting aliens, Dr Doom, and occasionally confused dinosaurs—more to the point, fighting alongside a Norse god, an out-of-time Supersoldier, two super-spies, and the _Hulk_ —and so really, vampires weren’t such a stretch.

That’s what he thought, staring at the white gauze on his neck, if only to avoid the dark rings around his eyes and the deadly pallor of his skin.


	4. MCU; Tony introspection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The stars that burn brightest burn quickest." Tony hates that old adage.

Tony knows that thing, that metaphor about stars and geniuses. He’s always thought it was a crap stereotype—[reason, preferably scientific]—and repetition doesn’t endear it to him any. When he was thirteen and graduating high school, seventeen and graduating MIT, twenty-one and taking over his father’s empire, after every time he did something stupid and ended up front-page news, always there would be that one person, that one reporter, who would sneak in “the stars that burn brightest burn quickest,” as if it were clever. It’s really not.

What the reiteration means, though, is that everyone’s waiting for the burn out, the bright final flash of his genius before he implodes on himself. His shareholders are stodgy old men more worried about their money than about Tony, which makes their supercilious questions about his welfare all the more annoying. He much prefers them questioning his sanity honestly—tiptoeing around the subject just makes him want to go apeshit on them even more—but he only goes to those meetings because if he doesn’t Pepper gets cruel about her scheduling and he hates when she’s insistent.


	5. Doctor Who; Rose and Ten in Disneyland

She grins at him, that one with the tongue and the teeth that makes him want to—and then she opens the door and steps out into a strange, new world. He follows; he always follows.

“It’s Disneyland,” she says.

He looks around, blinking in the bright California sun, bemused. “So it is.”

She stares at the tourists with Mickey Mouse ears, at the hyperactive children and the aloof teenagers only pretending at disdain, and then she turns to him and smiles. “Brilliant!”

He grins back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was from a prompt, which was going to be maybe a few thousand words of fluff and never got past the 100-odd here. This is the original prompt:
> 
> ONCE UPON A TIME, THE DOCTOR LANDED THE TARDIS IN THE MIDDLE OF DISNEYWORLD.
> 
> ACCIDENTALLY.
> 
> And there was moaning and groaning and smiling and laughing and srs discussions about Beauty and the Beast and lots of pointed ignoring of any similarities between the story and their lives and visits to candy shops and UST during the parade of lights.


	6. Doctor Who; Martha introspection

She was beginning to get sick of that name, Rose. It kept cropping up when and where she least expected, stealing the mad sparkle from the Doctor’s eyes. That hollow stillness about him until he snapped back to her, smile wide and eyes artificially bright. Rose. What was so special about her? Was Martha so different?

She didn’t understand him, not really. She knew the facts, some of them: he was a time-and-space traveler, the last of his kind, the last Time Lord (possibly); his world was dead and he would never (could never?) go back; his planet was Gallifrey. Had Rose known all that? Had Rose known more? Would it have mattered either way?

She wondered where Rose had gone that the Time Lord couldn’t go to her. Watching him in those seconds when that name was said, she knew with absolute certainty that if he could have gone to her he would have. Could she say the same for herself?

Oh, she knew he’d never _leave her behind_ , not on some alien world or in some alien time. Possibly at home, in that cramped apartment, to go back to her normal life as a normal doctor (assuming she even passed her exams). But that’d be as much an abandonment as somewhere or somewhen she’d never been, and it would be so much worse: she would be expected to pick up where she left off, and she wasn’t sure she could do that anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about half-way or three-quarters of the way through season three. I have no idea where it was going, or what I wanted to accomplish.


	7. Doctor Who; post-Doomsday fix-it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose finds a way across the void.

There was only one man she ever loved. Loved for true. Loved forever. He had almost no hair—or almost too much. He had blue eyes—or brown. He was a brunet, but he wanted to be a ginger (maybe one day). She’d never see him again. He said she’d never see him again, and she trusted him, trusted him with every single atom of her being, with every shard of her broken heart.

But there was something in her, waking up. There was something in her that had blinked open its eyes when she’d read that name on the map, “Bad Wolf Bay.” It twitched, and stretched, and crouched waiting. For a moment, for an instant, when she had looked at his image on the beach, it had stood still, quieted down to nothing.

Then he had disappeared again, the specter of a dream.

The wolf howled.

~*~

There was only one woman he had ever loved. It had been stupid to love her, he had tried so hard not to, because she was human, a stupid ape, the most wondrous species to cross the vacuum. And he was a Time Lord, last of a dead race, who would live until the end of time (if something else didn’t kill him first).

When the transmission cut, when the last hole closed, with her words still ringing like a church bell—like a death knell—in his ears, he thought, _I’ll never see her again._ And he thought, _My previous self would have—he would have cracked open the universe for her. I would have cracked open the universe for her. But I can’t, not this time, not this me._

And that was the end of it. (Not really; there was a woman in a wedding gown in his TARDIS, he had to find out who she was and how she’d gotten in— _no one_ could get into the TARDIS without a key.) That was the end of him. She’d saved him, when he’d needed it, and her absence killed him all over again.

But in the back of his mind, the TARDIS hummed.

~*~

She spent Christmas wondering when the spaceship would come down or when the aliens would invade, but nothing happened. Well, she worked for Torchwood, so of course _something_ was happening, but it was…a normal sort of alien. It had nothing to do with the Doctor.

For her family, she pretended to be happy. She knew her Mum and Pete worried, Mickey worried, about how she threw herself into her work, didn’t sleep. Maybe it wasn’t a good life, she told her Mum, but it was a better way of living. Because if nothing else, she had to try. For him. Because he’d told her, hadn’t he? _Have a fantastic life._

She felt like she was waiting. She sat on the roof of her new house as the clock struck one on Christmas day, looking at all those stars, knowing the Doctor could probably name every one, and she waited.

~*~

He spent Christmas trying to get a bride back to her wedding, and then killing the last of a species. He was good at that, killing. Wiping out the last remains of whatever race stood in his way. The Daleks. The Cybermen. The Racnoss.

The Gallifreyans.

The bride told him no, when he asked. She said he frightened her to death. All he could think of was Rose, her smile, her promise of forever that she tried so desperately to keep because she loved him. She loved him. He knew what his love did to people, what loving him did to people. 

So he went back into the TARDIS, on to the next adventure, going through the motions because he didn’t know anything else. And even as she whirred into motion, the TARDIS felt like a sentinel in his mind, silent, waiting.

~*~

She saw him running like a madman down the street, being chased by people who looked ordinary enough. He looked nothing like her Doctor, not either of them (he was ginger, her Doctor would die of jealousy), but against her breast her old TARDIS key warmed.

It felt like hope.

She chased the people who were chasing the Doctor, feeling her heart pounding like it always did before. Now that—that felt like life.

She saved the Doctor, through luck or skill or fate. He gave her that manic grin of his and for a moment she forgot he was wrong, he wasn’t her Doctor, but the TARDIS felt off in the back of her mind and the wolf growled.

He asked her to stay, and as she stepped into the TARDIS triumph surged through her veins.

~*~

The hospital halls rang with the armored footsteps of the Judoon, and he looked at Martha Jones, clever medical student but all wrong, all wrong, and he told her it meant nothing (because it was nothing, it was worse than nothing: it was a betrayal, it was necessary) and he kissed her, heart breaking all over again because she was _all wrong_.

“Oi, I’m gone for a few months and you get a new _girlfriend_?”

He pulled back sharply, thinking he’d finally gone mad, because it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be. He was afraid to look, and then he turned and his eyes met hers, and _it was._

_“Rose.”_

“What’s with the rhinos in metal suits?” she asked, eyes sparkling, snapping him back to the present.

“Judoon. Hired coppers. After an alien.” 

“You?” she asked.

“Nah,” he said, grinning. It was her. He held his hand out. She grabbed it without a pause. “Let’s go save the world.”

“Yeah,” she said, and they took off down the hall, leaving clever, wrong Martha standing bewildered in the hall.

~*~

After they’d saved the day, he stood in the TARDIS, and Rose stood in front of him. The TARDIS hummed like sunlight in his mind, and Rose grinned like a supernova.

“How did you get here?” he asked.

“Did you forget?” she asked, still grinning in the face of his solemnity. “I’m the big Bad Wolf.” 

He stared at her, realization dawning, horror dawning. “No. No no no no. Rose, what did you do?”

“I came back. Forever, yeah?” Her eyes glinted gold. The TARDIS sang, and in the background, he could hear a wolf howl.


	8. FMA; Trisha POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trisha's pregnant, and she just knows it's twins. (Imagine her surprise when it's not.)

When Trisha found out she was pregnant, she was ecstatic. She came out of the Rockbell’s examination room to find her anxious husband hunched over in a chair, hands clasped tightly, glasses slipping unnoticed down his straight nose, wondering, with all the uncertain fear of a man who loves, why his wife had been vomiting every morning for nearly two weeks. Just enough of a scientist to imagine the worst, not enough of a doctor to diagnose the symptoms.

He looked up when the door opened. Trisha smiled at him, and watched his broad shoulders slump in something like relief.

~*~

She knew he would leave her, one day. Some day soon, probably. He had never hid that from her, couldn’t bear to keep such a damaging secret from the woman he loved more than life. But children he could give her.

Trisha always imagined her children sun-kissed, with their father’s ripe-wheat hair and burnished gold eyes. She couldn’t stand to think they would inherit her coloring, because she knew that soon her children would be all that she had of her husband.

From early in her pregnancy, she was certain she was carrying twins. When she didn’t develop fast enough, she worried. What if there was something wrong with one of them? She had heard stories of one twin demanding the greater share of nutrients from the mother, and hoped desperately that wasn’t the case.

She and Hoheheim spent hours, long, slow, wonderful nights discussing boy names. Edward for the first-born, they decided, meaning ‘guardian.’ It was a good name, a strong name, the name of a boy who would do anything for those he loved. Alphonse for the younger, a soft name that rolled off the tongue, the name for a boy who would love fiercely and gently. When Hohenheim asked about girl names, Trisha just smiled and shook her head. They wouldn’t need girl names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the result of three things. 1) A line, almost in passing, from a fic, about how extraordinary it was that the brothers activated the same array together. My observation that this (two people using one array at the same time) happens nowhere else in the series. 2) Another line from fic, about how the brothers are two halves of the same soul. The speculation of what that would entail, given that they were born almost a year apart. 3) The creation part of alchemy takes imagination, as stated by Scar in the last chapters of the manga. But two people do not imagine things the same. So how could the brothers use one array together?
> 
> As you can see, I had grand designs for this one which stalled out pretty early.


	9. FMA; Ed has a mental breakdown after the failed human transmutation

The day starts as every day has since That Night: Al brings Ed his breakfast. The two handles on either side of the tray are too small for his now-large hands, so he holds it balanced on one open palm, while his other hand—gauntlet, really—opens the door. Alphonse has crushed three other doorknobs, so he is careful to watch the motion, since he can feel nothing.

Edward is already awake, but he’s not really aware. His eyes are groggy and confused, staring at the stump of his leg beneath the thin summer sheet in bemused fascination. Al can’t tell if he’s noticed his lack of arm yet, and as always the shorn-off shoulder brings a pang of guilt. Pinako told Al that the bandages come off soon, but Al doesn’t know if he can stand to look at the ugly scar he knows is all that remains of Ed’s arm.

His brother looks so small with only half his limbs.

“Good morning, Nii-san,” Al says as cheerfully as he can manage, voice emerging with that peculiar metallic, echoing quality which is still strange to him. Ed doesn’t seem to hear him, so Al sets the tray on his lap. At the sight of food, Ed’s eyes sharpen, and he follows one armored arm up to Al’s helmet.

“Who’re you?” Ed asks bluntly.

“I’m Alphonse,” Al says patiently. It’s not the first time he’s answered this question and he knows it won’t be the last.

“That’s funny. My little brother’s name is Alphonse,” Ed says, almost absently. He begins to search the room with his eyes, going so far as to lean forward to see around Alphonse’s bulk. He does a more erratic second-sweep, and Al can see the panic starting in his eyes. “Where’s Al?”

“I’m right here, Nii-san,” Al says.

Ed’s eyes snap back to him. He doesn’t deny the claim immediately, so Al thinks this might be one of the better days. “Why are you in a suit of armor, Al? How can you even _walk_ in that thing?”

His head tilts to the side, expression lighting with recognition. Al feels a flutter of hope like the brush of birds’ wings against the red seal on his back, but then Ed dashes it. “That’s the armor that was in the study, isn’t it?”

Al nods.

“C’mon, take it off. It’s ridiculous,” Ed says with half a laugh.

Alphonse ignores the request. He smoothes the sheet on the bed, and says, “You should eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

“You aren’t eating with me?”

“No,” Al says.

Ed makes no move to pick up the fork. “Did you eat earlier?”

“No,” Al says again.

“Well, why not? Go ask Auntie for a plate, I’ll wait,” Ed says stubbornly, moving to cross his arms over his chest. That’s when he notices he only has one arm. 

He twists his head around to stare at the rounded outline of his shoulder, eyes widening. “What…what’s going on?” Ed asks shakily. His good hand comes up to touch the pristine bandages. Ed’s voice is small and lost as he asks, “Al?”

Al kneels by the bed to be less intimidating. He carefully sets one gauntlet hand on Ed’s good shoulder, hoping it will be some comfort though Winry has told him that the leather is stiff and old and dry. “I’m right here, Nii-san.”

Ed wrenches his head around to look at Al, gold eyes frightened. “Al, take that stupid armor off. I want to see that you’re okay.”

Al doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t know what’s going on! I don’t have an arm and half my leg is gone and you’re in a suit of armor and _I need to make sure you’re okay_!” Ed’s voice rises hysterically, loud enough that the door opens and Winry pokes her head in.

She assesses the situation before taking a cautious step inside. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“ _No!_ ” Ed yells before Al can think to answer. “Tell Al to take it off!”

The first time Ed had made such a demand of Winry, she had said, rather blankly, ‘What? His helmet?’ She knows better than to answer him now. “Ed, please calm down. Everything’s alright.”

Edward’s panic-stricken eyes dart from Al to Winry and back again. “Why aren’t you answering my questions? Why aren’t you _listening_ to me? I just want to know that Al’s okay. Please, Al,” and now Ed appeals directly to Alphonse, “please let me check.”

Alphonse considers. Edward has been remarkably coherent this morning—maybe… “Nii-san,” he starts cautiously, “do you remember the night we tried to bring Mom back?”

Ed laughs uneasily, glancing at Winry meaningfully. “What do you mean, ‘bring Mom back’?” Then he seems to register that Al spoke in the past tense. “Wait. ‘Tried’?”

“It was storming really hard,” Al says. “We had the array chalked out, and all the ingredients in a pan, just like we planned, do you remember?”

Ed’s eyes lock on Al’s helmet, but they’re hazy, unfocused. He’s not seeing Al. His breathing starts to speed up.

“Al,” Winry says uneasily. “You shouldn’t—”

Al talks over Winry; he’ll apologize for the rudeness later. It’ll be worth it if Ed finally _remembers_. “And we each pricked our fingers. Blood for the soul information, right? Everything seemed to be going well, but then the transmutation rebounded. You lost your leg, and I lost my body. But you gave up your arm—”

“No!” Ed’s sudden denial cuts Alphonse off mid-sentence. He claps his sole hand over his ear to block out the words, muttering a constant stream of ‘no’s. 

“Nii-san,” Al says, daring to squeeze his hand a little. “Nii-san, are you—”

“No!” Ed shrieks, startling Winry into a little jump. He desperately pushes Al’s hand off his shoulder, and Al allows himself to be moved. “You’re lying!”

He kicks the tray off his lap and it spills onto the floor, toast and orange juice splattering everywhere. Winry scuttles back, and then turns and runs out of the room. Ed curls into as small a ball as he is able, rocking slightly.

He’s unresponsive the rest of the day.

Al still thinks it was one of the better mornings.

\--

Ed was unconscious for several days after That Night, and half delirious when he woke. He kept crying for Al, even when Al stood by his side and murmured reassuringly. Al didn’t dare take his hand yet—he’d broken and damaged enough things already that he didn’t want to take the chance with the delicate bones of Ed’s hand.

When Edward finally broke through the delirium, his first words were again for Al. But when Al had answered, had taken off his helmet and showed Ed the blood seal that kept his soul bonded to the armor, Ed’s eyes had blanked out and he’d started screaming.

He didn’t stop until Pinako sedated him.

\--

Another morning, another breakfast. The moment Al steps inside the room he knows it’s going to be a difficult day. Ed is awake and aware and hostile, body turned slightly so that his bad shoulder is behind him, compensating as best he can for the weakness. Al can’t help but feel a flare of pride for that.

\--

“Where’s Al?”

“Nii-san, I’m your brother, I’m Alphonse.”

“Liar.”

“Don’t you remember? We tried to bring Mom back and it all went wrong. You brought my soul back—”

“LIAR! Where is my brother?! Al! AL!”

“Nii-san, I’m _right here._ ”

“Alphonse! Where are you keeping him? Give him back! _Give him back!_ ”

—

But in this body, Al can’t even cry.

\--

“Good morning, Nii-san.”

“Who’re you?”

“I’m Alphonse.”

“That’s funny. My little brother’s name is Alphonse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ed’s mind breaks from the strain of the failed transmutation (of his mother), what he saw in the Gate, and what of Al he managed to save (or rather, what he couldn’t). Thereafter, he doesn’t recognize armor!Al as his brother, goes into screaming fits whenever Al tries to insist that he is Alphonse. Ed insists that Al’s lying and that they’re all trying to keep Al from him. The reason differs: sometimes he thinks it’s to torture him, sometimes he thinks it’s to keep Al safe from Ed, sometimes he thinks the armor was animated by his father, who is keeping Al from him and left the armor as his minder/guard/jailor. He forgets and remembers randomly—some days they’ll have practically the same conversation every morning, some weeks they’ll go through without a single hiccup before Ed forgets or remembers something differently or believes a different scenario.


End file.
